


Cures

by AndeliaMaddock



Series: For the Birds [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Drugging, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Poisoning, Showers, YALLASKEDFORTHIS, basement captivity, basement time, brain fuck, humorous and sad audience information arcade doesnt have, mindfuckery, potential romantic feelings, potential sexual feelings, white knighting gone wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-01 00:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11474499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndeliaMaddock/pseuds/AndeliaMaddock
Summary: Arcade Gannon hasn't seen Boone in far too long and he needs reassurance his friend is alright.Unfortunately, that's so far from the truth Arcade can't even grasp his head around it. Neither can Boone or Vulpes/Fox, but they've stopped trying for a long time now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was literally asked for this. Can't blame me. (Yes you can.)

 

“And you’re certain Boone’s up this trail?” He holds the water the nice young man had given him and nods in the direction of the mountain path in question. There’s a road he can follow, thankfully, but he’s still not keen on going up into it. He’s not exactly fond of long climbs, despite having made several on his journey.

“Oh, definitely.” The young man, he rocks forward on his feet and smiles up at Arcade. “Though, uh, they don’t really usually like company they don’t know about in advance.”

“They?”

“Yeah! He’s got a-- well, uh.” That excited smile fades and a chipped tooth bites into a thick pink lip. “ _They're hard workers._ The men around here, we really like and respect them. I especially do. So, I know you’re a friend and I’m sure he’d love to see you, but I hope you can accept that.”

Arcade doesn’t mean to laugh. Really, he’s not cruel. It’s just. This is a bit cruel, it is, to _Arcade._ He doesn’t even bother to assure the younger man, he simply nods, “Oh, has he _gotten better shoes_ since I first met him?” It’s painful to talk in such blistering euphemisms, remnants of a life he's long since grown out of, yet it soothes and amuses all in the same stroke.

It figures. He’d come all this way, thinking Boone had gone off the grid because Legion took him or killed him, or he finally met his match somewhere along the road. But no, it was something as _mundane_ , yet sweet, as getting a lover. How wonderful for Boone.

How long had he tracked mentions of the man? Months? Months, he’d taken time away from actually caring for people to go and try and care for one that got away. One that…

Oh, the soldier man talks. Arcade blinks and listens.

“...so honestly, they’re really nice together. They have a farm and brahmin and I think a few bighorners now! Plus a ton of birds. I don’t know why, but they’re always there when I visit.” All the other words string out so nicely, but things fray there at the end.

“Do you visit often?”

“Oh, not a whole lot! But I did a few weekends ago and I helped pick some of their vegetables and stuff. They’re a really cute couple.” It’s not difficult to see such a bright blush, even against dark skin. Killinger? Yes, Killinger, he has a nice face and it would be so pleasant to watch the man talk if he wasn’t describing Boone having a happy little homestead with someone else.

It’s disgusting. Arcade feels disgusting. He’s being selfish and he knows he’s being selfish. So Boone finally walked away from all the bloodshed and the randomly perpetrated violence of the Mojave? So he eked out a life for himself? So what? That’s a good thing.

Good friends, good _people_ are happy for Boone. Like this Killinger guy. He’s just ecstatic and more than a little bit gay, with the way he bubbles up when he talks about Boone and this Fox character.

“You look upset though.” Happiness pops and it’s right back to uncertainty. The guy clearly loves and respects Boone and whoever else. He also talks like someone still in the ‘closet’ and that just hurts Arcade that tiny bit deeper.

Ah, to be young and projecting. “Boone and I go back. If you’re worried I might not approve of them _planting a garden together_ ,” anything can be a euphemism if he tries hard enough but this is sincerely terrible and he almost laughs, but instead continues to say, “don’t worry. I’ve got a _green thumb_ myself.”

The face opens wide in that same penetrating and Killinger nods vehemently, “Yeah, me too. Though uh, I don’t think the guys around here know it.”

He refuses to believe this is true, but also refuses to destroy another series of illusions in this young man’s life. Let him figure things out. He would, eventually. It wasn’t Arcade’s place to tell people if they should be open or not. God only knew that had gotten him in trouble in the past.

Right. Normal people talk when others finish, they respond. Normal people aren’t so stuck in their own heads that they ignore others. He keeps his same smile and nods back. “I’m sure if the men around here know about Boone and this… Fox, they’d be willing to accept you. Though what you do is your choice, don’t pay me any mind.” Of course, the first thing he does is try to get them out of the closet. Because who else would, right?

He knows better.

Killinger blinks.

Arcade expects to be told off, or have all the reasons why that’s just not feasible explained, or any number of things he’s heard over the years. ‘I’m sorry, but my job’s important to me, Arcade.’ ‘It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s that I’m afraid. You don’t want me hurt, do you?’ ‘What do you mean, _boyfriend_? I’m not _gay_ , Arcade. You’re just… an _exception_.’

Men do not make good confidants.

Killinger nods, though in a decidedly more careful manner. He glances about. “Do you… do you really think I should tell them? What if… I mean, maybe I should.”

They weren’t opposed to the idea, they just seemed a bit nervous. “You know, I know a man, I won’t say his name or rank--it’s a small NCR--but I knew this man quite well, for a time. He wanted discretion, so I walked. Sometimes you’ll lose people you care about if you’re discreet. And sometimes they’ll lose you.”

“You’re out then?”

Another laugh and really, he doesn’t mean to sound so… himself, but he can’t help it. God, is he out. That’s the single shining thing he doesn’t hide about himself no matter what, because there’s no shame in it, just shame in the bigots who think it wrong. “Yes. I’ve been out for quite some time. Though, it’s been rather refreshing talking in euphemisms and innuendo again. I don’t do that nearly enough. Some are quite amusing.”

Killinger’s back to rocking on the balls of his feet. He seems more energetic, more excited, also more in thought. Those heavy brows pull in together, a stark contrast to most of the other expressions he’s shown. “Maybe I should. But I still like women, it’s not like I don’t.”

“Why choose?”

“That’s… allowed?”

Arcade snorts. He doesn’t even try to subdue it, though he feels a spark of regret at their expression. “Of course it’s allowed. Only fools want to relegate what happens in the bedrooms of others. Fools will try, but c’est la vie, what can you do?”

Brows raise and this helpful gate guard smiles right back over at him.

Over. He’s not taller than someone, for once, they're almost the same height. This pleases him in ways he hadn't thought about for a time. It’s been a while, not since he watched the Goliath that was Lanius fall off his laurels, and saw Caesar go tumbling after. He grins and it matches this man’s own smile. “Boone’s happy though?”

“He’s happier than anyone else around here ever saw him. Apparently, a few of the guys knew him back when he was 1st Recon.”

Another snort. Another apologetic look, “Ah, Boone still is 1st Recon. He might not have re-enlisted, but he’s always going to be NCR. He still wears that ugly hat, doesn’t he?”

A flash of shock, a flash of guilt, a flash of amusement, and Killinger laughs and nods with heavy glances over his shoulder. His voice dips lower than it did when he’d mentioned his own sexual inclinations, “You probably shouldn’t say that unless you want a real thorough dressing down, Mister.”

“I wouldn’t mind that from some of the soldier types around here, I assure you.” He winks, and refuses to regret it. This man’s far too young for him, but that doesn’t stop him from making them blush and getting a bit of a rise from it. “Besides, I’m not a _Mister._ ”

Flash of shock returns and they blink, tilt their head, then nod. “Alright, miss?”

“I’m a doctor.” He's really starting to warm up to Killinger, and he should stop himself, post haste.

Killinger laughs a throaty little laugh and steps closer. His voice dips in that same lower direction, but a bit more pointedly, “Oh, are you now? Well, _Doctor_ , it was very nice meeting you. I wouldn’t mind you giving me a _check-up_ later if you have the time.”

He’s here to visit Boone. He’s here to bury the past, or recover it. He’s here-- he’s absolutely here for this. “Is that right? Well, I should warn you, I like to take my time, make sure I don’t miss anything.” It’s just teasing. It’s just flirtation; there aren’t laws locally about that.

Another laugh, it borders on a giggle. “I’d like that. Though, are you a soldier, or a former NCR soldier?”

“Ah,” he considers this, swishes it around in his mouth, “no. No, I am not.”

“Well, without Boone or someone else, you can’t really stay here tonight. Unfortunately. But I get leave soon, maybe um… Maybe if you’re still up at Boone’s, I could come visit?”

It’s presumptuous. It’s not something he usually does on purpose, in advance. A petty part of him says to agree. This is absurd, but Boone left without saying goodbye to his friends and found happiness, so why shouldn’t Arcade find a bit of fleeting happiness as well?

He rolls his shoulders back, but nods. “If I’m still there, certainly. And if I’m not, I’ll come back down to thank you for reuniting me with my friend. Does that suit you?”

Forward and shy all in one action, Killinger looks down but nods. “Yeah, that suits me.”

It suits him too. It’s just a fun bit of flirtation, nothing will come of it, but for the first time since he started on his journey to find his friend, he’s feeling a bit more chipper. There’s a bounce in his steps up the mountain road.

He’s happy, right up until he sees Vulpes Inculta petting the surprisingly sleek fur of a brahmin.

His Plasma Defender is in the holster, just like it always is. It’d be a simple tug and pull to get a few shots off.

Boone’s right beside him though, petting the same brahmin, though the opposite head.

Both glance to him at the same time, a look of shared surprise at company.

He smiles and steps closer, without even a single twitch of the fingers to say what he wants to do. “Boone! I’m so happy to see you.”

Vulpes Inculta seems to relax and he leans back into Boone’s arms, “Friend of yours?”

Boone glances from Vulpes Inculta, back up to Arcade. He’s got a face of so many expressions, but most of them are subtle, it takes time to know how to read them.

There, Arcade sees Boone tense, then relax. He sees Boone smile, as though this was all very normal.

He sees someone who's been captured and abused by the lead frumentarius, clearly brainwashed so deep he barely even needs chains anymore, though telltale bruises form in circles around the wrists anyway.

Boone nods, “Yeah. Arcade, you must have come a long way.”

“Oh, is he from back in the Mojave?” Vulpes asks it in such a feigned innocent tone.

It makes Arcade want to vomit.

He’d worried Boone was dead. He’d worried he was a slave. He’d been less concerned when he heard Boone was back West--or there were rumors of him at least--but this… he maintains his smile though, and steps so close. “I am. I had some time off and wanted to see what Boone was up to. You seem so happy. I’m glad.” It hurts, it stabs, it rips into him, but he’s had years to perfect lying about his emotions.

So he lies.

Boone holds Vulpes loosely and nods, “I am.”

Boone lies too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stairs can't lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I slipped and horrible things came out (for Arcade.)

 

Boone acts like he always did, but with an extra coil of tension. It’s strange though, it sits in the lower back, not in the shoulders. Boone stands up taller, he holds himself upright fully, even when he’s seated.

Arcade doesn’t know what it means, but he can imagine. Vulpes and Boone keep exchanging glances. Some remind him that Vulpes has had such a long time to mold Boone into having a perfect persona in front of the public. For God’s sake, Vulpes has been carting Boone down to an NCR base and cavorting about so blatantly, even the guard at the gate thought of them as the perfect couple.

He smiles though. There was a joke there, he sees it on their faces. A joke between them, like a little couple’s secret.

He doesn’t laugh, but he offers a knowing smile and turns his head down with a partial grin to let them know, ‘I see you, but I won’t tease you’.

It’s all lies. He feels sick. That’s alright though, dinner’s almost over. Soon, he can help Boone.

“So, what do you do, Arcade?”

“Oh, Boone didn’t tell you about me?” It’s a gamble. It brings him satisfaction to see irritation spread over that smug bastard’s face. He keeps himself calm and polite though, and continues, “Well, I work for the Followers. You know, we go around doing our very best to help those in need?”

“How very charitable of you.” That voice is equally as polite, calm.

Vulpes knows. Only an idiot would attempt to out-fox a literal Latin Fox, Vulpes Inculta.

Fliers said the bastard was dead. He’d just believed it, believed it like he’d seen Lanius crumple to his knees, like he’d watched Caesar burned alive by a flamethrower--he’s a man of medicine, unaccustomed to watching such carnage first hand and being tangentially or directly responsible for it--and even for Caesar it was a bit much using a weapon like that. Not that he truly cares, it’s just, he has a rather _vivid_ imagination and memory, and the visuals are quite a lot to handle.

“Are you ok?” Boone’s tone was anything but dulcet, but it still carried heavy concern.

He blinks. “Ah, sorry.” He should have more words, but he lacks the capacity. No, it’s not that, it’s the place he’s at. He laughs with a bit more force than he likes. He swallows a bit of water. It tastes heavier than he likes. It tastes like it could be drugged.

It’s funny, Boone handed him this water. This wasn’t Vulpes’ doing in a direct sense, but he’s uncertain it was even done. It could be how the water nearby tastes.

Wouldn’t that be something? He drugs Vulpes, Vulpes drugs him. Or poisons him. The pièce de résistance of the whole mundane but almost-pleasant dinner would come if they both managed to kill one another. Boone would be left with such a mess to clean up.

Not that Boone hadn’t cleaned body messes before. Arcade has that skill-set too, even if he hates the fact he does.

Vulpes licks his lips, stares down at the plate of potatoes and gecko. “Boone, I think this gecko may have gone off. Did you store it in the fridge immediately this morning?”

Shit.

Boone glances up from his own potatoes and stills the fork. He sets it down and nods, “I always do.”

“Does yours taste alright, Arcade?” Vulpes asks.

He doesn’t like his name at the best of times, not the way he carries it at least, but he loathes it when that monster says it. “It’s a bit strange.” And it is, but only because he’s not eaten gecko in a while, he’s been more focused on buying ready to eat meals in the several stops along the way.

“Mm, perhaps you got a good piece, Boone.” Vulpes rises and cleans the gecko from his plate into the trash.

Arcade swallows heavy, “Perhaps we should all do that, to be careful? Food poisoning is serious, and I hardly have the things necessary to help all three of us feel better, should that be necessary.” He’s not a spy. He’s felt like one a bit his entire life, but this is far above his pay-grade.

Not that he’s being paid, anymore. No, that ship set sail and he’s left at the docks, watching Vulpes clutch his throat.

Well, that’s actually better than being paid. He stands. “Let me help you.”

Boone stands. “Arcade.”

He glances over.

He hears the glass shatter before he feels it. He does not enjoy the sensation.

\---~~~---

He continues to not enjoy the sensation immediately upon waking. He reaches up--he does not reach up. He can’t reach more than a few inches towards his face before metal jangles threateningly.

Boone.

That wasn’t Vulpes, that was Boone.

That hurts worse than the sticky gash on his forehead. It doesn’t hurt as bad as he thinks it should and he inhales. Healing powder, sweet yet bitter all in one scent. It’s funny, really, that someone like Vulpes clearly made this for him; it's a crude attempt at healing on a doctor who is in for a rough time.

Was it night already? It had only been mid-evening when he’d arrived. Were there any windows here? The thought enters then exits when he sees the window in question and the barest hint of moonlight.

So, he’s been out a while, with emphasis and uncertainty on _while_.

He hears them and he clings to the sounds against the darkness.

“What, do you want to keep him?” Smooth, somewhat higher. Definitely Vulpes.

Boone’s voice is too low, it’s nothing more than a rumble through the floor above.

“I could help.” Vulpes seems almost eager.

Something louder, but still so unclear. It sounds negative though.

Why couldn’t humans develop ears that listened readily to lower sounds as well as high baby-like ones? Not that it’s easy to hear Vulpes--his voice is by no means high--but it’s at least more certain than Boone’s end of things.

“Boone…”

He doesn’t know, he can’t hear, he needs to know what’s being said.

If he was really a spy, as he had been made to feel his entire life, he would know how to break free of chains. Even those on his ankles, even those on his wrists. He could figure a way to organize and situate his body so he could break free.

He is not a spy, despite how he always had to pretend, and he is distressed for once to realize this. He is just a doctor and he played his hand too quick by putting the powder root drug onto Vulpes’ gecko steak, blended against the plate. It worked just right, but he didn't take into account Boone would...

Boone had hit him with one of those plates.

He did this to save Boone, but Boone was too far gone. Just like the voices he could no longer make out above him.

The door opens. There’s a discordant amount of steps and he can’t quite understand what he’s counting. This, above all else, makes him swell with rage. Counting, if nothing else, should be certain. He’s been doing it since he was under a year old, after all.

The rage spreads past his numbness, seeps into everything else.

The light cord is pulled and they both stand before him.

His mouth is not gagged. Good. He opens it.

Vulpes kneels down and looks him right in the eyes. Those eyes are so bright, even in the dim light, even rimmed in red. “I really wish you hadn’t drugged me.” The words drag out, as though he’s still sedated enough he can’t quite form them. He does pronounce them, but the words roll over one another, almost comically, were it not for that expression.

“I do too.”

“I’m sure.” Vulpes leans in closer, and Arcade can smell the faint scent of soap over his skin. It mixes with something stronger, creates a heavy scent.

“I should have just stuck with the poison. I suppose next time, I’ll know.” He spits.

“Next time--” He shuts his eyes for a moment, then Vulpes rises. He wipes the spit away from his smooth cheek, flings it onto the cement floor with an irritated flourish. “There won’t be a ‘next time’, fortunately.” There’s more emphasis and clarity in these words, as though malice makes up for sedation.

Arcade looks past Vulpes, up to Boone. In the lighting, it’s almost difficult to read Boone’s expression, shadowed as that face was, but he thinks he can. There is definite remorse.

It’s not Boone’s fault.

Arcade could have gone after Boone. For two years, he could have followed. He could have ensured Boone was alright.

Lovers did not make good confidants, but neither did anyone, really. He’d pushed Boone away, and probably been the reason Boone had been so easily caught.

Vulpes stands and pivots. A hand slides onto Boone’s shoulder, caresses it in a pantomime of concern and love. “Whatever you do, that’s fine.”

Up the stairs, Vulpes went. Ten steps.

That wasn’t what he heard before, was it? It must be. There’s a sense of calm in hearing it clearly.

Arcade takes a breath, then says, “Boone.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Boone, he’s not in charge of you. You’re not like this.”

“You don’t know what I’m like.”

There’s so much pain in that voice. Arcade feels rage boil up, but he tempers it and tries to shift forward, to get a good look at them. “Boone, please.”

Boone turns. “When you’re not a threat, you can go. But not until then.”

Oh.

Well, _alright._

It’s 15 steps to the door, where Vulpes waits for Boone.

He hears the locks engage.

He laughs.

Not even the stairs make sense anymore. He can’t even count right, how is he supposed to help Boone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry...
> 
> I'm a little bit sorry. Arcade's in for a bad time, friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important to note that it'll be about a week before I update this (as of 7/14/2017) because I want to make sure to write either the whole thing, or enough that I don't write myself into a trap.

 

He can hear them upstairs, having some sort of low argument. There’s a creak of the floor, then more arguing. Wait.

No, that’s not arguing. Or, if it is, it’s arguing that now includes a very loud and squeaky bed.

Squeak squeak squeak, rumble rumble, squeak squeak.

It’s a fairly consistent pattern. He lays down flat on his back, with handcuffed wrists over his belly and his ankles annoyed by shackles a few inches apart from one another.

He could have asked Boone, “Are you willing to work with me to get you out of here?” He says it aloud, a soft whisper to help ground him when they’re above being so loud. He still can’t hear what exactly is being said, but he’s certain he knows what they’re doing.

It doesn’t sound particularly violent. Just, bodies pressed to--alright but that was a hit. He hears it, sharp and resounding, even through the layers of wood and metal and whatever else parted the world between Arcade and them.

Another slap, more rumbles, and so many of those squeaks.

More hits, moans, rumbles, squeaks. It all blends together into a rhythm that sounds almost natural, but definitely not. It’s horrible. Maybe they’re used to it, but he refuses to be.

He ignores the part of himself that responds to those sounds. He rolls onto his stomach and lifts his arms above his head. He cranes his neck to the side and does his best to find a comfortable position.

Then again. He has the use of his hands, for the most part. His ankles aren’t in a great spot but he can make do and work around that. Arcade pushes himself up to his knees, then slowly rises up and stands taller than he usually allows.

He pulls the light cord, illuminates the room.

Sparsely decorated, but it is just a basement. It’s not like he expects pegboards filled with torture implements, or chests full of knives and… well, actually. He hadn’t really taken in the room the first time the light was turned on, but he did sort of expect that.

This was Vulpes he was talking about, after all. The sadist likely had any number of those implements hidden away upstairs, where those he tortured couldn’t get at them and turn the tables.

There’s a sturdy looking circular table, a chair that’s losing a bit of its upholstery, a wooden cabinet with no lock--he hobbles in that direction with slow, judged steps. Though he’s unused to moving like this, he thinks he doesn’t make too much noise. Certainly, he doesn’t make more noise than the two above and to the right of him.

Still, they stop.

Did they hear? Do they only last a few minutes when they get started? Will they come find him rifling through their… pantry? He sees nothing but shelf after shelf of canned goods. There’s a strawberry jelly next to a jar of cherries, next to a can of baked beans. There’s more food than he usually sees, all stacked and pretty and ready for consumption.

Bighorners and brahmin, a nicely growing garden, a well-stocked pantry; they’re set for at least two seasons with all this food.

Two seasons no one would even have to go to a store or leave the house for much of anything at all, as far as he can tell.

Arcade hears steps. Two sets of steps, even. They’re slow but confident ones.

He sets a jar of jelly next to its brethren and moves as quickly but effectively as he can to the light switch. He pulls it and lays himself down right as the door opens.

“Arcade?” It’s Boone, nothing but a sharp outline of shadow in front of a bright light at the top of the steps.

“Boone. Come to release me like a sane individual?”

“No. Not unless you can promise not to tell.”

“Why would I tell that a head Legion spy and First Recon sniper in the NCR have a happy little homestead where they kidnap anyone who learns their secret?” He’s too tired and frustrated to temper his tone.

Boone snorts, that same noise he might make if Arcade told a bad joke. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?” He almost asks more. He sees Vulpes’ shadow though, it cuts through some of the brightness for a moment, then stands so close to Boone, their shadows seem to mix and blend.

Vulpes speaks, “There’s a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Keep the escape attempts quieter, please.”

“Oh, for you I suppose I can try.” He will stop of course, but he’s blisteringly irritated about it. Still, he’d rather figure out just what he has at his disposal before he tries any grand escape attempts. Sleep could be rather good.

Boone snorts, in that same ‘bad joke’ way. “Try to sleep.”

“I have so much practice sleeping in chains, Boone, perish the thought this might be a difficult first night.”

Vulpes laughs, quiet, subdued, “I’m surprised, really, that you don’t have more experience. A man with your background…”

Any thoughts of retorts dried with that tone, with that hanging period of silence.

Vulpes didn’t know about his background, right? He was so careful… He caught himself hundreds of times, kept himself from saying too much, from giving his past away. Surely some smug dog-headed sadist hadn’t detected who he was, where he was from?

Then again, maybe Vulpes was still in contact with the others in the Legion, had learned about his quest to bring the Enclave back together to fight against the Legion. While he’d stuck that battle out as a member of the Enclave and had instead fought as just Arcade Gannon, battle-medic, people had to have wondered where his courier friend got the suit.

This was nonsense. Vulpes didn’t know. No one knew.

“When you show you can be trusted, I’ll take those off,” Boone is quiet, but firm.

“Really? It took months…” Vulpes stops, then turns and walks towards the space Arcade can’t see. “I’m going to bed. You can deal with him.”

Boone starts down the stairs. It’s that full 15.

Arcade shuts his eyes, waits for the darkness to be illuminated. Even beyond his thin lids, he can tell the light stays off and Boone stands tall so near.

“Arcade.”

He peeks his eyes open, confident Boone can’t see this meek show. “Boone.”

“I don’t want this either.”

“Oh, well, in that case, all is forgiven. Far be it from me to hold my captivity against someone. It’s hardly your fault you’ve been brainwashed and ruined.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me. No, really, turn on the light and let me see your face. Look at me fully and say that’s not what this is.”

Boone leaves the light off. He turns and moves back up the steps near silently.

The door shuts.

If, say, a pair of escaped slaves came in saying a few Pro-Legion things after all their time in captivity, he wouldn’t blame them for that. He would correct them, he would explain things to them, but he couldn’t blame them.

This is not that.

Boone makes his choices and Arcade wishes those choices didn’t make Boone the enemy too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's my discord channel where people love talking about Fallout and various other fandoms (mostly ones I write in/have written in.)](https://discord.gg/5ctd7mb) Feel free to pop on in and say hello!


	4. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcade is extremely suspicious of literally every single thing, even the most mundane things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hi, I know I said I would post in "a week" or some similar promise. What actually happened is I got stuck on Chapter 9 (yes! 9 chapters for you babies in the coming weeks, plural, at a slow pace because boy did life hit my right in the knackers.) and then when I finally got unstuck I was like, hey, I'm unstuck, I should write some original fanfic and other things!
> 
> But then it occured to me, that so many comments from alla y'all meant you, oh, gee, I don't know, actually wanna read more. So I'm going to try and post more! BUT! I do not want to post too quickly, because that's how I write myself into a corner and never finish, so let's not let that happen!
> 
> For my mental health, because I am saving money for top surgery by working my body to the bone, I will not be writing as quickly as usual, so please refrain from "POST MORE NOW!!!!" comments! Y'all have been so good about that! Thank you! I would like you to continue posting fun, good comments that really let me engage with you all!
> 
> Without further wait, here it the next chapter! I will post updates in the next few chapters so y'all know what's going on!

He sunburns easily. Boone knows this. He knows Boone knows this. Vulpes probably also knows it.

He’s more enraged that Vulpes lets him work in the shade. This is absolutely appalling mind-trickery. How dare they pretend they care about his skin?

They even put a floppy sunhat on him and this is just insulting.

If he was asked by someone, ‘why complain about a good thing, about compassion?’ he would not have an answer but he would definitely want to answer with a fist. He’s not a particularly violent man, but even he has his limits.

“Boone, could you hand me the water bucket?”

Boone rises and comes over with the water bucket.

This is ridiculous. Vulpes can phrase it as a request all he wants, he’s got Boone trained and Arcade feels sick to see it.

“Thank you.”

Thank you indeed. Arcade pushes a tiny seed into the ground. “How do you grow xander roots? I could never get them to grow myself.”

He catches a series of glances between them, intercepts them like the hapless spy he is. He’s unsure how to decode those messages, but they are his now and he keeps them, files them away for later.

“Xander root grow when there is a heavy influx of nitrogen,” Vulpes says it like he’s reading it from a book, an encyclopedia.

Funny though, there are no books on xander root that Arcade knows about, as the most he knows about them suggests they’re a post-war mutation, not a pre-war plant that remained. He’s got his guesses on what root they mutated from, but nothing solid, no true knowledge. So, either Vulpes is full of it, or he’s gotten pretty good at figuring out things about plants.

Arcade chooses the second one but keeps the idea that Vulpes is a liar in his mind. “So, you add a lot of manure to that spot?”

Another series of glances.

Boone coughs. “We do have a lot of brahmin and bighorners.”

He squints against the sunlight, attempts to read Boone’s expression more. “So, those plants are new then?”

“What makes you think they’re new?” Vulpes tilts his head, looks at him straight on.

“Those bighorners are freshly branded, same with the brahmin. And that fence is new.” He knows he should keep his thoughts close to his chest, not show his whole hand, but damn it, he’s not used to hiding mundane thoughts.

Another series of blinks, almost like Morse code. There’s a pattern here. There’s something sinister and he doesn’t know what that is and it’s maddening.

Vulpes licks his lips, wipes sweat from his brow onto his red plaid shirt, and shrugs. “Those ones are new. But we’ve been growing these plants for a while.”

Killinger said they only just got the beasts. He won’t implicate Killinger in this. He can let this slide.

“Something else you want to say?” Vulpes rises, waters the guilty little sprout that started Arcade’s train of thought in the first place.

He has so many things to say, but he shrugs as well and shakes his head and keeps his mouth shut. He has work. He’s their worker right now and he can be just that while he considers his avenues of escape.

Boone’s a sniper, and not just any, 1st Recon. He’s not stupid, even if he’s stoic. He knows how to counter people. He’s…

He’s long gone.

Vulpes is a spy, even if he’s currently potentially no longer Legion. Almost definitely no longer Legion. Caesar wouldn’t let a grand-master Frumentarius just walk away and shack up with an enslaved NCR man, that’s just not how this works.

Caesar’s dead though.

But this place has been inhabited longer than that, Arcade knows this. For years, or slightly less. He’s unsure on the math of anything, these days. How many steps to the top he knows is 15 though, he finally got to count that himself.

“I think it’s time for lunch.” Vulpes sets the water can next to Arcade. “I’ll go start it. You finish watering, please.”

Please please, please. This is disgusting. Legion doesn’t say please. Legion are… Arcade squints at Vulpes. Legion are not polite.

Boone stands and steps towards Arcade with soft bootfalls on the desert ground, careful to avoid any of the good dirt and the plants within. “He’s not bad, Arcade. Not anymore.”

He wants to argue. He does. He has a thousand arguments in half a dozen languages (half that he believes Vulpes could understand and Boone could not) but he keeps them tucked away tight. He glances over with disdain written more clearly than he’ll allow himself to speak. “Oh, did the power of your love heal him?”

Boone grunts, rolls his eyes, and goes back to his section of the garden, in the full sun.

Boone’s tan looks nice, bronzed and golden, with a sweaty sheen that only magnifies--no. He’s the enemy too, even if he started as a victim.

Arcade looks to his work. Water the plants.

He’s not sure how much water they need, or even what seeds he was given. The only instructions he was given included how far to space them and how deep to push them. This could be a problem. New seeds should be treated delicately in most situations. Too much water could kill, not enough could as well. Still, he doesn’t want to ask.

Boone doesn’t even look over, “Hold the water over each spot for two seconds, then move to the next one.”

How dare Boone know about his indecision. Arcade does so though. He considers counting to three seconds, just to spite Boone, but it’s certainly not the fault of the seeds that Boone and Vulpes are terrible.

By the time he finishes watering, Vulpes returns and stands between the two of them, a wall that keeps Arcade from truly getting to Boone.

Vulpes speaks in that haughty tone he always does, “Lunch is ready. It’s sandwiches today.”

“What kind?” Boone puts his hoe back into Vulpes’ tool shed and returns, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

“My favorite.” Vulpes smirks.

Who smirks at a favorite sandwich?

Boone smirks too.

Why are they smirking? Arcade stands fully upright, asks, “So what kind?”

“Oh, xander root and gecko meat.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Oh, it’s really quite good. And I didn’t poison yours.” Vulpes turns and walks around the house to the front. The door opens loudly and shuts just the same.

He hadn’t considered poisoning, but suddenly he’s lost his appetite wholly.

Boone snickers. “He’s joking.”

“So, he did poison mine?”

“No. He… he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

“So, he’s not joking then?”

“Arcade.”

“Boone.”

“If you want, I’ll eat your sandwich and you can eat mine.”

“Truth be told, I’m not feeling very hungry. Perhaps I should just go sit alone, chained up in the basement. I, your once best friend.”

“If that’s what you want.” Boone shrugs. “Don’t dawdle.”

Boone leaves him too.

He could run. He wouldn’t get far, but he could.

That’s what they want, isn’t it? He follows after, he doesn’t ‘dawdle’, even if the ankle chains might make him slower. He matches Boone for pace by the time they’re at the front door.

“After you.” Boone motions for Arcade to go first. It’s a simple gesture.

Arcade narrows his eyes and does so. Boone only wants to force him inside. But fine.

The kitchen is, dare he think it, cute. Homey, even. There’s pastel paint along the walls, soft colored curtains in front of a square window over the sink. Along the counters are various jars with spices and flour and other substances inside.

He wonders if any of those sincerely do contain poison.

What poison would Vulpes put into him, if he were to? Would it be a fast-acting one that causes intense pain but allows Vulpes to put in one last little quip before death? Would it be the sort that is subtle and slow, so Arcade merely fears a stomach cramp and ends up buried and--

Nitrogen. Decomposition. Bodies. Oh god, no that’s not what they looked from one to another about, is it?

“You’ve killed people.” He says it. He knows he should not.

Boone and Vulpes pull out chairs and sit. They look up to him.

They are homogenous. They are one. They are gestalt and this is madness.

“Well, of course we have. As I recall, you’re not exactly an innocent in death either, Doctor Gannon.” Vulpes pulls a cloth napkin from a wooden container on the table and sets it over his lap.

He almost replies to the last bit, but the first pounds at his head as a drum, “You killed people who learned of your identity, didn’t you?” They are going to kill him. This is all a cruel extension of his life.

Vulpes smirks, then laughs and takes a sip of water.

Boone sighs. “That’s ridiculous. No one else knows about Fox.”

“Then how exactly did you get enough nitrogen for the xander root?” This is ridiculous, he’s being ridiculous. He’s over the top right now, and he knows this.

“Oh, that? That’s from all the dead bodies.” Vulpes takes a bite of his sandwich. There is laughter in the crinkles of skin around those bright blue eyes.

Arcade blinks.

Boone huffs. “Fox.”

“What?” Vulpes swallows and continues, “He asked how, and I answered. Surely you don’t want me to be a liar, do you, Boone?”

He’s an outsider, looking in through a foggy glass. There’s so much he can’t see, but he knows they’re talking even with pursed tight lips.

Arcade pulls his chair out carefully and sits.

The plate looks fine. He lifts the sandwich. Nothing beneath the sandwich. He lifts the top piece of bread. Nothing between this and the shredded root. It’s all just orange and grayish orange. Unappealing, but at least it’s food.

Maybe if he does die, that’s for the best.

No, that’s a fool’s thought. He’s no fool.

Vulpes wasn’t lying. These roots are from dead bodies. That’s why they grow so readily when he couldn’t ever get them to. It makes sense. Once, when digging up the soil around some xander roots to try and get them to grow in greater numbers closer to the Followers, he’d found bones. He’d said something to Boone about it then.

He puts the sandwich back together and takes a careful first bite. Oh. Oh. If he is to die for this sandwich, he isn’t angry. The somewhat greasy flavor of the seared gecko steak counters the smoky peppery flavor of the freshly grated xander root. He nods.

“Do you like it? An interesting thing about xander root is, the flavor is intense enough to hide more mild ones you might not want focus on.”

He squints. He knows this game. He is onto Vulpes. “Like that of cyanide? That’s got a rich nutty flavor, just like the seeds you could extract it from.”

Vulpes smirks and bites into his own sandwich, but nods. A wipe of napkin later, he continues, “Or even arsenic. Flavorless is better, if the method of death isn’t important to you.”

“Well, if you’re going with poison, isn’t it?” He takes another bite himself. He doesn’t taste any nutty--wait. No, he does. There’s a smoky nutty flavor hidden in there. He recalls though, certain strands of xander root have that flavor, especially if slow-roasted. There’s certainly fresh root in this, but it’s possible the steak itself was seared with the powdered form. Or, it’s possible that young tree in the back created some fruit that could be used to poison. Or, even still, that Vulpes got deadly seeds from a vendor down at the base at the foot of the mountain.

Oh, the deadly possibilities.

“Fox. Arcade. Could we not talk that at the table?” He stares at his own sandwich and finally lifts it to eat.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Vulpes takes another bite.

“Nor would I.” And he hates that it’s true. Well, true to a degree. He doesn’t want Boone to fear a poison death from him, even if Boone is technically also the enemy.

He does want to finish this sandwich though. It’s tasty and potentially deadly and as far as ways to die go, cyanide was horrible but generally quick.

He finishes his sandwich quickly, a silent challenge to his captor.

Vulpes wipes his face. “Please do the dishes, Arcade.”

Please this, please that. Emily would love assistants who say please so much, and normally he would too. But usually that much politeness hides something sinister and in this case, it must.

Still, it’s a minor thing to rebel against.He’ll save his rebellion for another task. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Boone joins in on clearly fake politeness, stands, and brings all the dishes to the counter for Arcade to wash up. “We’ve got a compost heap. That’s what we used to fertilize things before.”

“So, there aren’t really bodies?” It’s important to know, but he regrets asking the moment Boone looks him in the face.

“Bodies don’t last as long as I like.” He walks past Arcade. Their shoulders brush.

It would be an intimate moment, years back. Here, he shudders and turns on the faucet.

Hot water. They have a pleasant kitchen, a nice garden, a compact ranch, and a working hot water tank. This is incredible. He’s the captive of the world’s most mundane murderers. This is cozy.

He puts the water hot enough it’s nearly boiling. Anything to block these thoughts. His hands redden like his skin would in the sun instead of the shade. What would take hours takes mere minutes. His hands burn, but he succeeds in just not thinking about anything else for a time.

The dishes stack nicely in the metal frame and he turns towards them on the couch, finally returns his attention to the bizarre world that is his existence.

They’re cuddled up on the couch, reading an encyclopedia.

Well alright then. He stands, uncertain.

“Do you need a bath? You smell.” Vulpes doesn’t even look up.

Boone elbows Vulpes, whispers something that takes on a bit of a hiss. Then he looks up, “We’ve got a shower you could use. Or bath. Either.”

So, is he still relegated to the moldy basement like a bent can of baked beans, or is he allowed to be above with them for more than just work? He takes a step forward. “I wouldn’t mind a shower.” He’s careful with his words, he modulates his tone to be flat. He doesn’t require a shower, he doesn’t want it held up, like a treat to reward good behavior. He doesn’t care either way.

He really wants a bath though.

Boone nods. “Here, I’ll help.”

No. No, he does not want help. He’s perfectly fine to bathe himself thank you, he does not need--

Boone pulls out a ring of keys. “Just don’t try to run and don’t use all the hot water.”

Oh. Well, that’s fine. Freedom of the wrists and ankles is fine. He holds out his hands and waits patiently. Success. He’s free, for certain qualities of ‘free’.

“We will hear the window open, if you try it.” Vulpes continues to read the massive book that’s positioned half over his lap. He lifts the book a bit when Boone returns, lets them have their part of it once more. “What part were you at?”

“Rose thorns.”

“Alright.” Vulpes points.

Boone nods.

Arcade doesn’t even know where the bathroom is, but he’s not about to ask. He walks past the kitchen table, through the living room, and down a hallway. There are several doors. He tries the first one, only to find a linen closet with a small open space and an old style vacuum. He wonders to himself if it still works. If they have electricity, and they do, then it’s not unreasonable to assume a Hoover could still suck. If it doesn’t work, perhaps it could be fixed.

Ridiculous. He doesn’t care if they have anything better than a broom to clean with. He grabs a towel then shuts the door firmly.

“Second door on the right,” Boone calls out.

“I just needed a towel.” He continues down the hall towards where he was headed anyway.

The room is clean. The sink looks cracked in places, but otherwise useable. There are lines, where someone put in an epoxy, did their best to fill in those cracks, but they did it too late and hairline fractures angle out from those porcelain sink scars.

The mirror is new and beautiful; it's too big for the sink, too big for the bathroom. It looks like it came from a bedroom, maybe one that used to hang on massive wooden dressers in master bedrooms.

He looks tired. They let him sleep, even after they started work for the day. He still didn’t get much sleep.

He could break the mirror, slice them with it if they tried to enter.

He laughs and locks the door instead, then removes his clothing in a slow manner. If this is all the freedom he gets, he’s going to take his time with it. Enjoy himself.

He does not enjoy it though. He loves baths, especially warm ones followed by a cool wet washcloth after. It’s been months since he’s been able to take one, he should feel relieved.

He used to call the Lucky 38 a prison, like Cass and even Boone. He used to think of it that way, and then he found an actual one.

He lets the shower drown out his wry laughter. They might hear it anyway, if Vulpes wasn’t lying about the bathroom window being heard easily.

It’s all steam and blistering water that lets him feel something that he chose, not something-- a knock pulls him from blistering red, and he turns off the water. “Yes?”

“Are you alright in there?” Vulpes.

He’s fine. He grips the towel tight, scrubs at his skin. He can see where the cuffs bruised at wrists and ankles, and he scrubs there harder. Everything is coated in mist, including his eyes.

The door attempts to open. It jangles hard. “Arcade?”

“I’m drying off.”

“You locked the door.” It’s insistent, edged with anxiety.

“It’s fine.” It’s a rumble from beyond the hallway, Boone.

“But he locked the door!”

“He always does. He likes privacy.”

Arcade rubs the soggy towel against his glasses and sighs. He won’t be able to see at all until he opens the door, releases the steam. But he can’t do that while they’re out there.

Isn’t he Vulpes’ prisoner? Yes, as a trick Vulpes gave Boone permission to treat Arcade as he chooses, and he seems insistent on maintaining that freedom, but does it really extend so deep that Boone tells Vulpes it’s fine, dismissively?

He squints, and the world pulls into focus for a moment, despite his lenses not working at the moment. “I’ve got many nefarious plans, I assure you, but none involve my ablutions. I’d like to open the door and release some steam, if you’d be so kind as to let me.”

The door stops shifting and the knob stops jangling. Steps seem to sound and take Vulpes further away.

Wearing nothing but his moist towel, he unlocks the door and cracks it a bit.

Vulpes peeks in at him from within the hallway, narrowed eyes a primary feature in his face, tied only with equally tense lips.

It’s disconcerting, but not unexpected. He smiles wide. “Better? I didn’t even poison anything this time.”

“That’s good. Perhaps you can learn.”

“Well, don’t assume things, you know what it makes you.”

“Exactly what it makes you.” Vulpes steps back, keeps his focus on Arcade though.

“Fox. Arcade.” Boone from the living room. There’s a very distinct sigh too, one Arcade had missed for so long, but all too soon he recalls with frustration and amusement blended together like oil paints on a canvas.

He holds his ground, keeps the door open and remains staring at them. The fog begins to clear, and he finally puts on his glasses again. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to dress.

“We could just put you in the basement angry and red like that.”

“Is that what you did to Boone?”

The couch cushion squeaks in the living room. Boone steps towards the hall.

“Yes, it is.” Vulpes steps closer.

“Well, by all means.” He still maintains his position, tall, shoulders as broad as they go, head angled back so he can look down his nose at them. It’s not a fighting pose, but a posturing one.

“You don’t have to make everything a production.”

“I’m not!” It’s two voices, which is odd, because he distinctly is only one person and he knows who said it in sync with him, but he’s not happy with it.

Neither is Vulpes, it seems. But Vulpes steps back, then slams the door.

He’s fast, quick enough to pull his foot away from the door before his toes are jammed under it. He had that happen, one time, as a child. He doesn’t need a repeat.

Outside, Boone rumbles something and Vulpes doesn’t reply.

He can hear them step back to the couch. He hears a door slam. He hears springs of the couch cushion go, but another noise too, perhaps the bed?

Arcade dresses quickly and tries to process it all, but none of it fits together. There are pieces missing and while he used to excel at putting those puzzles together despite everything, this is the single largest puzzle he’s ever encountered and he feels ill-prepared for the challenge.

When he finally steps out of the bathroom and edges his way into the living room, he sees Boone alone on the couch, book heavy on just one leg. He glances back towards the hallway, sees the door at the end is shut. Definitely the bedroom, and it seems Vulpes is there.

Boone motions him over.

There was a time, he’d saunter over and place himself into Boone’s space, accept it and enjoy it, even if he wasn’t sure how Boone feels.

He still isn’t sure, but that’s less important when they’re certifiably insane and holding him prisoner by extension.

Still, he steps over. Saunters even, though he doesn’t feel that same confidence he would have projected years before. “Yes?”

“All you have to do is swear to keep this a secret. You could go. Right now, if you wanted.”

He’s never been fond of outright lies. When pressed, he always preferred the Daisy Method of things. Obfuscate. Deny. Keep vague.

Boone knows this. He told Boone this once, like a drunken fool. It was near the same time he told Boone how he felt.

Then Boone left.

Arcade swallows. “I’m not going to.” Say that he wouldn’t tell, because he absolutely would.

“You’re not going to what?”

He knew Boone would ask. He knows this is futile. “I won’t promise I won’t tell.” He gave it his best, but that’s about it.

Boone shuts the encyclopedia and stands. He grabs the dried handcuffs. “I’m sorry.”

He could run. Vulpes is clearly in the bedroom, and Boone is not quite as fast as Arcade is when he’s trying. He knows this. They’ve raced in more life-threatening situations.

He feels frozen. It’s sweltering, and his skin still burns and puffs from the shower, but he can’t move. He’s numb and paralyzed and he knows why; he’s a doctor, after all, this is something he has seen in his patients.

The cuffs click into place. Snap. Snap. Metal against flesh, twice. They aren’t tight, but enough that he’s already more swollen than he started, or he believes himself to be.

Boone turns him and they head to the basement. They walk down the steps, Out of sync by one step each time. Arcade reaches the bottom first, with Boone’s hands on his shoulders.

Arcade takes one last look at Boone before Boone turns to leave. Boone looks sad.

Fuck Boone.

**Author's Note:**

> [Loving this? Hating this? Feeling something? Tell me about it.](https://discord.gg/JYfyT9V)


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